Page 2 of The Forest Bride
“I know. But this is my responsibility.”
“And this is a good match. Her father is an influential lord, her kinsman is Marischal of Scotland, and her great-grandfather is Thomas the Rhymer, respected for his counsel and prophecies. Her family has power and position. And I have a good feeling about this girl.” She gave a wise smile.
“Aye. But my future is uncertain. I know the tocher must be repaid if no marriage takes place, and I will pay it. It is my debt.”
“You are a good soul and a good man. So like your father.” She ruffled his dark hair. “The black hair, those dark blue eyes, the cheeks that stain pink with your thoughts. Like him in your heart and your stubbornness, too. But—”
“Thank you. But?”
“But you have such reserve. You hold back. You are thinking of honor, I know. But that lass has a wild spirit.” She indicated the girl spinning about below. “She can teach you something.”
He huffed. “She deserves better than a younger son of a clan chief.”
“Your father is a powerful Highland earl and cousin to the mighty Bruces. That bonny lass will not find a finer match than Duncan Campbell, who completed his studies in law and natural philosophy at Saint Andrews. We are proud of you.”
“I may never use those studies if Edward has his way.”
“Your father’s position as justiciar in the north is heritable, but your brothers are not interested in that work. You studied law, so he wants his judiciary role to go to you.”
“And I am honored.” His brusque, decisive father was stern and fair, and his role would be hard to fill; nor could he think of his father gone. “They say King Edward will not allow Scots to hold heritable positions. Those may go to English lords instead.”
She sighed. “He would erase our character even as he takes our land and goods.”
“Some of us are determined that will never happen.”
“This marriage alliance could help that effort one day. Think of that.”
“Mama,” he said gently, “leave it be.”
She patted his arm. “I must welcome our guests. Your sister will entertain the girl this afternoon. I am thinking you should keep your distance from her until later.”
“I will take a hawk out to fly.” He needed to get outside to think.
When his mother left the room, Duncan glanced out the window again, still feeling regret and guilt, though his decision was necessary. Below, Margaret Keith whirled again; she had a wildness that reminded him of the hawks in his father’s mews, untamed and spirited regardless of jesses and expectations.
He did not want to hurt the girl. He wanted marriage someday, but felt compelled to focus on knighthood and a need for freedom, justice, and honor. Too much was unknown. A decade earlier, Scotland had lost a good king down a cliffside on a rainy night, and later, the little princess who inherited his throne had died too. Edward of England stepped in like a vulture, appointing Sir John Balliol to the throne—Edward’s Scottish puppet, many said—ignoring eligible warriors in the royal line, chiefly Sir Robert Bruce and Sir John Comyn.
If the younger Robert Bruce claimed the kingship, Duncan felt sure fates and fortunes in Scotland would improve. So far Bruce had made no move. Until he did, Duncan would ride for Edward as he must. But he would rather join what some called hotheads—a growing faction of young Scottish lords determined to fight for Scottish freedom. That felt more like honor to him.
He took the stairs to the yard to head for the thatched-roof mews. Among those stubborn, magnificent birds, he could find peace and purpose, and perhaps sort out his conflicted heart.
Carrying a goshawkon his gloved fist, Duncan crossed a broad meadow, his plaid cloak of green, blue, and black fluttering about his knees over a long tunic of brown linen and woolen trews. As he walked, the bird cheeped, blinded by a leather hood topped with a jaunty feather.
“Restless and ready to fly? I feel that way too, lad,” he murmured.
One never knew what to expect from a hawk, a wild thing that likely complied with humans only because they proved a regular source of food and shelter. Birds of prey were pragmatic, somewhat lazy creatures, accepting captivity only so long as it pleased them. Never fully tamed, they might decide to fly free at any time.
His father’s mews was known throughout the Highlands for its excellent birds and a skilled falconer who had infinite patience for the hawks, falcons, and owls Sir Colin kept. Duncan had learned much in that tutelage. Leaving home and ending the betrothal to fulfill his knight service troubled him, but his sense of honor and his need to build a future for himself gave him little choice.
Ahead, the long isle was a stretch of flowered meadow, woodland, and shore, where the gleaming blue loch rippled on a pebbled beach. He headed toward a cluster of pines and birches thinking to release the hawk there.
At the mews, he had learned that his sister had taken a kestrel and their young guest had asked for a bow and quiver to practice archery. Walking over the meadow, Duncan glanced around for Isabel and Margaret, determined to take a different direction if he saw them.
But soon he saw his sister running toward him, cloak flying out, dark braids bouncing. Behind her came a groom carrying a bird on his glove. Seeing Duncan, she ran faster, waving. Something was wrong, he realized.
“Isabel!” he called.
“Duncan!” She stopped, breathless. “We need help.”
